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TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE                      _

Augustus Carmichael had noticed. Perhaps he
had; perhaps he had not. She could not help
respecting the composure with which he sat there,
drinking his soup. If he wanted soup, he asked
for soup. Whether people laughed at him or were
angry with him he was the same. He did not like
her, she knew that; but partly for that very reason
she respected him, and looking at him, drinking
soup, very large and calm in the failing light, and
monumental, and contemplative, she wondered
what he did feel then, and why he was always
content and dignified; and she thought how
devoted he was to Andrew, and would call him
into his room, and, Andrew said, " show him
things ". And there he would lie all day long on
the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry,
till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, and
then he clapped his paws together when he had
found the word, and her husband said, " Poor old
Augustus—he's a true poet," which was high
praise from her husband.

Now eight candles were stood down the table,
and after the first stoop the flames stood upright
and drew with them into visibility the long table
entire, and in the middle a yellow and purple
dish of fruit. What had she done with it, Mrs.
Ramsay wondered, for Rose's arrangement of the
grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of